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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28490778">when we meet again</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/katherine_tag/pseuds/katherine_tag'>katherine_tag</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>To the Hilt - Dick Francis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Post-Canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:42:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,048</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28490778</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/katherine_tag/pseuds/katherine_tag</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been six months since I had seen Chris Young, standing in the doorway of Emily's house in Lambourn.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alexander Kinloch/Chris Young</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>New Year's Resolutions 2021</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>when we meet again</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Midnight_Girl/gifts">The_Midnight_Girl</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I saw your prompt and couldn't resist, as this is one of my favorite Francis books as well. Couldn't get it done in time to post for Madness, so: Happy New Year!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After my private sanctuary had been invaded by the four thugs and Zoë Lang in quick succession, it had no longer felt so private, or so much a sanctuary. I stayed, however, and as my back healed, burns fading, so did my unease. The hills of Scotland did their work, a balm for my soul. Now, I hardly ever woke in a cold sweat, dreaming of those lights, that lawn, the four thugs holding me down. I was grateful for that, because when I did dream, Chris did not come, and it was an endless agony until I woke.</p><p>Still, even in my worst nightmares, I didn't say a word. </p><p>I woke early that morning, frozen for a heart-stopping moment in the pre-dawn light. Feeling sick, I rolled over onto my stomach, shivering as the sweat cooled on my skin. </p><p>Jed had come by the day before, to switch out batteries for my mobile phone. I took it with me, dragging on a heavy jumper and shoving my feet into boots before I went out the door and out into the chill April wind. The air smelled fresh, like minerals and green growing things, and I let the wind sweep the last vestiges of the dream from my mind. </p><p>It had been six months since I had seen Chris Young, standing in the doorway of Emily's house in Lambourn. I came down from my mountain top more often now, to see my mother - still grieving, but no longer frail - and occasionally, surprisingly, Em. We were still married, and likely to stay that way, though we would never have the traditional marriage in all the storybooks.</p><p>"I don't want to hold you back," I had said.</p><p>Smiling, she had said, "You won't."</p><p>So we had our nights, and the rest of the time she was free to do as she wished. Our truce had evolved into something warmer. Whatever it was, it worked for us and I was glad for it. </p><p>I felt off balance and out of sorts, and I turned the phone around in my hands, sitting on a boulder behind the bothy. I hadn't meant to leave things with Chris this long. I had said <i>a friend for life</i> and I had meant it, but every time I picked up the phone to call, I was at a loss for what to say. In the end, I hadn't, but then, neither had he. </p><p>I dialed his pager number from memory.</p><p>Chris called me back right away. "Al," he said, more warmth in his voice than I thought was warranted, given the early hour and how long it had been since last we spoke.</p><p><i>I dreamed about the garden and I wanted to hear your voice,</i> I didn't say. "Good morning."</p><p>There was quite a lot of background noise on his end. With the crackling reception, it was difficult to hear. "I'm at the train station," he said by way of explanation. "It's been bloody boring without your case, I can tell you that, mate."</p><p>We made plans to have a drink the next time I was in London, which was Friday. It was Wednesday now. I walked the hills for a quarter of an hour, eventually driven back inside where the wind was less likely to chill me to the bone. </p><p>I spent the rest of the day and the next putting the finishing touches on three paintings destined for America's shores. The golf business was booming. I would never tire of painting golf, I thought, but I was beginning to get the itch to do something different again. Zöe Lang's portrait, in storage with my other work, was in the back of my mind. I wanted to see what I could do next. </p><p>---</p><p>The pub was that cozy sort of British standard, dimly lit but for the last rays of sunlight still coming in through the windows. I sat in a chair facing the door at a table in the back by the stone wall fireplace. It was retrofitted for gas, and I shrugged out of my jacket and rolled my sleeves up in the steaming air of the pub. </p><p>It wasn't long before Chris came through the door. He spotted me almost immediately. He looked the same. Same high cheekbones, same bright brown eyes. His hair was slightly longer, but that was all that had changed. He was wearing jeans and a brown leather jacket over a white t-shirt. Something, I suspected, that had come out of his own closet and not a zipped bag in the boot of his car. </p><p>It was extraordinarily good to see him.</p><p>I didn't have time to examine that feeling too closely before he was at the table. I stood, and he clasped my outstretched hand before pulling me into a one armed hug. His fingers were cool against mine, and I could smell the leather of his jacket over the pervasive pub smells of chips and beer. He was careful, I noticed, to put his arm 'round my shoulders, avoiding where the worst of the burns had been.</p><p>"I'm glad you rang." He took off his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. "Buy you a pint?"</p><p>"Yes, thanks."</p><p>He seemed to know the bartender, laughing with her as she pulled our pints. He noticed me looking as he carried them back to the table. "Tonya," he said, handing me a glass. "She does security sometimes."</p><p>"And by security?" I sipped my beer before setting it on the table.</p><p>He grinned. "She would have eaten your four thugs for breakfast." </p><p>I had missed him much more than I thought, I realized. The sharp mind hidden behind his easy grin, the camaraderie we had built together. His confidence, that steady inner sense of self that allowed him to inhabit each character, skirt or knuckle tattoos or footy coach. I trusted him with my life. Had, from almost the very beginning.  </p><p>We caught up, like old friends rather than those who had been thrown together by circumstance. Chris told me about some of his cases ("Mostly insurance, these days. It's a sad lot.") and I caught him up on the happenings at the brewery. Patsy's charm had kept both Desmond Finch and the head brewmaster content. With the three of them at the helm, plus, of course, the lost millions Tobias had found in Colombia, it seemed King Alfred Brewery was set to make a full recovery. Patsy and I, though our relationship would never be warm, had reached a détente that seemed like it would last. I was only sorry that Ivan hadn't lived to see it.</p><p>Before I knew it, our pints had turned into whisky and hours had passed. I checked my watch and saw that I still had enough time to catch the late train. </p><p>"Call it a night?" Chris asked. He stacked our glasses on the table. </p><p>"Any more and you'll have to pour me on the train." </p><p>Christ went to settle the bill, over my protests, and I picked up both our coats and headed for the door. I had drunk more than I intended, and the cool air outside felt amazing on my flushed face. </p><p>"Where are you staying?"</p><p>I swayed a little on my feet, touching the rough brick of the wall to my right. "I was going to take the overnight back."</p><p>"Nonsense. I can't put you on a train like this." His keen eyes had missed nothing, as usual.</p><p>"I don't want to impose."</p><p>When Chris smiled, his whole face lit up, looked younger. "You're a lightweight, Al. My flat's just around the corner."</p><p>I could see there was no arguing with him. "All right." We walked side by side down the street. He was shorter than I, and slighter, though he was good at seeming larger or smaller depending on the part he was playing at the time. Our arms brushed companionably as we walked.</p><p>Chris lived in a third floor walk up in a genteely aging building in the middle of the block. He unlocked the iron gate with a set of keys produced from an inside pocket of his jacket and gestured me in. "Up to the top."</p><p>We were halfway up the second flight when he said, "Most people complain about the stairs. You're not even out of breath."</p><p>"Mm. Must be all the mountain climbing." I was feeling more sober with each step, too.</p><p>On the landing, he turned to face me, and said in his typical forthright manner, "You still married?"</p><p>"Yes." I hadn't run into him, quite, but we were standing too close. Neither of us moved away. I was sure he could smell the whisky on my breath. "Sometimes," I amended. "When we're together. And there are times Em finds it convenient to have a husband tucked away."</p><p>"And all the other times?"</p><p>I shrugged. "She does what she likes." This close, I could see the fine dusting of a day's beard across his jaw, the fullness of his lower lip. </p><p>"And you? What do you like?"</p><p>I blinked at him, feeling a bit slow. </p><p>He cleared his throat. "Sod it," he said, turning away and starting up the last flight of stairs. "Forget I said anything."</p><p><i>I could have killed him,</i> Chris had said to me in the hospital. I remembered his face above me while I was in the pond, a point of sanity in that surrealist fever dream of a garden. I felt my mind shift, slide around to see things from a new angle.</p><p> "Chris," I said, and caught up to him at the bend in the stairs. I touched his arm, slid my hand down to tangle our fingers together. "I'd quite like to kiss you, if that's all right."</p><p>In answer, he crowded me against the wall and pressed his lips to mine. I felt breathless with it, the combination of my realization and first brush of his tongue against mine making me dizzy. </p><p>"I have wanted to do that," he said, threading his hands through my hair and cupping the back of my skull, "since you walked into my office and saw through my disguise in nothing flat."</p><p>"I've never met anyone quite like you."</p><p>He laughed, resting his forehead on my neck, breath warm on my collarbone. "I could say the same. Come on." Taking my hand, he led me up the rest of the stairs. There was a small landing leading to two doors, one on the right and one on the left. Chris turned to the left and unlocked it with one hand, pulling me inside.</p><p>His flat was nothing like his office. Instead of soulless and spare it was comfortably cluttered. The back of his sofa faced the door, effectively creating a small foyer in the open plan living space. The upholstery on the overstuffed cushions was pure granny, dark green with large blobs of pink flowers. I took note of the pile of books on the floor to the right of the sofa, the small dinette in the neat-as-a-pin kitchen, an armchair piled with jumpers and hats. </p><p>Chris pushed the door shut behind us and kissed me again, pushing my jacket off my shoulders at the same time.</p><p>"Your sofa is hideous," I said, catching my coat in one hand before it fell to the floor. </p><p>"An op shop special," he said. "I don't live in a castle."</p><p>"Neither do I."</p><p>We sat on the appalling sofa, which was dangerously comfortable. I could see why he had brought it home, despite the upholstery. We were sitting close, his body a hot press against mine from shoulder to thigh.</p><p>"I'm sorry I didn't call," I said.</p><p>"You needed time." </p><p>I supposed he was right.Time to heal, time to retreat and feel safe again. Time to paint. Time to find balance.</p><p>"Chris." I leaned my head against the back of the sofa, rolling it to the side so I could see his face. "What are we doing?"</p><p>Serious for a moment, he said, "Whatever you want to do, Al."</p><p>I closed my eyes. What did I want? My mind wasn't entirely clear, but I was clear on this: I liked him. I missed him. I wanted to stay right where I was, for the moment.</p><p>Chris touched my cheek and kissed my forehead. "Have you ever, with a man?"</p><p>I opened my eyes. "Some quick fumbles at parties, mostly. I married young. Does it matter?"</p><p>"Not to me. Does it matter to you?"</p><p>"I'm sure I can figure out what goes where," I said dryly. </p><p>Laughing, Chris sat up and swung a leg over me so he was straddling my lap. He sat back on my thighs, a warm, welcome weight, and cupped my face in his hands. "Can I take you to bed, Al?"</p><p>"Yes," I said.</p><p>We undressed each other in the dark in his bedroom, with only the light from the street casting blue shadows across the room. He stripped off his shirt unselfconsciously and helped me unbutton mine.</p><p>"Does it hurt?" He pressed his hands into my sides, slid them up my ribs.</p><p>"Not any more, no." I stepped closer, wrapped my arms around his shoulders. "There's a couple of spots I can't feel at all - nerve damage. You can touch my back. I don't mind."</p><p>He made an angry sound, but his hands were gentle. "When I saw you lying there I about lost the plot, Al."</p><p>It had never occurred to me to wonder if Chris had nightmares about that night too, but looking at his stricken face, I thought I knew. I kissed him, almost fiercely, my thoughts and emotions all tangled together. "You got there in time," I murmured into his neck. "I'm all right."</p><p>He heaved a sigh against my chest, fingers kneading the muscles of my shoulders. Then, he seemed to come up for air, that irrepressible impish air firmly back in place.</p><p>"I'll tell you what, mate," he said, grinning, "driving that jumbo was the most fun I've had in years, never mind I was scared out of my bloody mind."</p><p>"Yes, Tobe told me all about your misspent youth," I said. </p><p>The mood lighter, we tumbled into bed together, pressed as close as we could. Making love with Chris was different than with Emily, though it wasn't fair to make comparisons, and, for the most part, I didn't. He laughed a lot, and talked a lot, a breathless running commentary that served to both tell me exactly when I did something he liked and smooth over any awkwardness I felt. In the end, we were both satisfied and satiated, legs tangled together, the worst of the mess wiped away with Chris's t-shirt.</p><p>In the morning, he curled up behind me, his face in my hair, arm slung around my waist. No need to question whether he still wanted me. I turned over in his embrace, shaking my hair out of my face and pushing myself up on one elbow. "Morning."</p><p>Squinting up at me, he said, "Morning. You're gorgeous, Al. That fucking hair." He tugged on a wayward curl that had fallen across my cheek.</p><p>I felt tongue tied. I had never been comfortable with being on the receiving end of compliments. In answer I traced the edge of one sharp cheekbone with a finger and followed it with my lips, kissing the soft skin under his eyes. He sighed, and his lashes trembled against my mouth.</p><p>We were slower, softer together in the morning light. I learned his body all over again with the sun to guide me, memorizing with my fingers and my eyes the hollow of his collarbone and the divot of his hip. Face to face, and eye to eye. When he came, he was still looking straight at me, eyes clear, smiling. I followed him, like I had the night before, an easy rush down, cool and sweet as a mountain burn. </p><p>Later, he made us omelettes in his spotless kitchen, and we sat at the table to eat them, grinning foolishly at each other. Conversation was easy. We ended up on the couch with mugs of strong builder's tea. I put my mug on the floor and laid down, my head on his thigh. </p><p>Chris smoothed a hand over my hair. "Will I see you again?"</p><p>"Whenever you like."</p><p>"Don't say things like that to me, Al. Not if you don't mean it."</p><p>I found, somewhat to my surprise, that I did mean it. I could see that I had been lonely in my mountain hideaway, but unable to reconcile that part of myself with the rest of me. The Al that needed the aching cold of my mountains, the clear air, the austere beauty of granite and heather far down in the valley below. I couldn't live in London with him any more than I could live in Lambourn with Emily. But, I thought, my life would be poorer without him in it. I said as much.</p><p>"But now the mountains are calling," he said, and leaned down to kiss me.</p><p>"Yes," I said when he sat back up. "I can't seem to live any other way."</p><p>"I know."</p><p>We were quiet for a long moment. I felt more settled; something in me had unknotted itself in the night. I was content to breathe in the homey scent of Chris's flat, his leg a welcome warmth under my neck.</p><p>Chris sipped his tea and squeezed my shoulder. "Just come back to me sometimes," he said.</p><p>"I will."</p><p>As usual, he couldn't stay serious for long, and our parting was good humored. He dropped me at the station with a wink. I bought a ticket and boarded, choosing a seat in a somewhat rose colored haze, still feeling the press of his lips against mine, his hands on my shoulders. </p><p>I leaned my head against the cool glass of the train window and smiled. Chris had given me a treasure of his own for safekeeping, I thought. And I would wrap it up with as much care as I had the Hilt, and tuck it away in my heart, for as long as he trusted me to keep it.</p>
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